Bakura's Tales of Torment
by Psyromayniak
Summary: The back stories to my fic 'Priceless' The full stories of Bakura's many torments of Ryou. Warning: contains Thiefshipping, some mild yaoi and lots of lovely TORMENT! Rated T for all the above    May also contain YGOTAS referances
1. Handcuffs

**These are the back stories to my fic 'Priceless'. Although you don't have to read it to understand this, it may help - .net/s/5915929/1/Priceless **

**Warnings – Thiefshipping, mild yaoi and Torment**

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Handcuffs**

Bakura smiled, everything was ready. His new shiny toys were laid out on the bed and the small video camera was set up in the corner. Not that he wanted to film himself and Marik in the act, but get the look on Ryou's face when he woke up the next morning.

With one last glance at the scene, Bakura grabbed two bottles of bitter from where he had placed them on the side and walked out to the hall, then through to the living room.

Marik, in the effeminate way only he could manage, was splayed out on the sofa, watching 'Psycho'. Tossing a bottle at him, Bakura sat down and pressed the big red magic 'off' button on the remote, earning a glare.

"Hey! It was just getting to the best part, where the girl gets killed..." Marik complained, looking at the bottle in his hand suspiciously, "what are you planning, anyway?"

"Oh, not much," Bakura took a large swig from his bottle, "well, maybe a little. I bought some new toys..."

" 'Kura, I'm not in the mood..."

"You always say that."

_- Two pints later–_

" I'm ssshtill not in tha mood... kurrra," Marik folded his arms and did his drunken best at a pout.

Smirking, Bakura leant over and placed one hand on Marik's shoulder, locking eyes with him. Without hesitating, he pulled Marik closer and kissed him firmly on the lips, feeling the Egyptian respond to his touch.

"What was that about not being in the mood?"

"Nnh, ggga" Marik grabbed Bakura's wrist and began pulling him towards the bedroom door, kicking off his shoes and undoing his lilac top on the way. Bakura chuckled quietly to himself and followed, removing his own shirt and loosening his trousers.

When the pair were safely in the bedroom, Bakura helped Marik to remove the rest of his clothes, his hands caressing the shape of the other man's body. With a quick shove, Bakura pushed Marik down onto the bed, clipping his hands in the handcuffs attached to the headboard.

The Egyptian's eyes gazed up at him as he straddled his torso, "now, should we begin?"

Ryou woke up. He felt, dare he say it, like a piece of poo. All his muscles ached, his head hurt and he would metaphorically kill for a cup of tea. Stretching out, he looked around his room bleary eyed. It was a mess, there was blood on the floor and, he was shocked to find that he was naked – not in his favourite bunny pyjamas like usual.

It was then that he made the mistake of looking to his left. Next to him, chained to the bed completely naked, battered, bruised and snoring gently was the Egyptian boy – Malik, wasn't it? – That his yami had taken a fancy to.

Horrified, Ryou opened his mouth and screamed.

**Sorry it's taken so long to get this out, but I hope you enjoyed it! The others should be coming along shortly =)**

**Xezbeth **


	2. Hangover

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Hangover**

The nightclub was packed. The music was deafening. Bakura was sober. People talk about the atmosphere in nightclubs, and how it hits you when you walk through the door, but the only thing that hit Bakura was a violent piss-head being thrown out.

Silently, he cursed Marik. It was his idea that he came here, to 'unwind' after a particularly stressful week. Apparently it was the 'in' thing to do for people of their age-group, but to the Brit it just seemed like a giant party. Bakura _hated _parties. The only way he could foresee himself enjoying this was if he got completely wasted – and such was what he intended to do.

Picking his way through the crowd – and their pockets at the same time – Bakura made his way over to the bar and ordered his first pint, to loosen up. Feeling a little better, he sent a second one down to keep it company. He frowned, worried about the well-being of the second pint, so quickly sent a third in to check on its condition. When this didn't report, a fourth was needed to see why it hadn't done so, and a fifth was given strict instructions to take care of the vulnerable first. Realizing that had missed giving out an important piece of information to the fifth, he sent a sixth in to head it off make sure it got the message. It seemed to Bakura that his stomach was now the venue of a small party, so he quickly quaffed a seventh and eighth to work as the bouncers.

To the left of the bar was a small round table, at which sat two men with a small group of people gathered around watching. In front of the men were six empty shot glasses and two filled with a translucent green substance. The men held the glasses to their lips and tipped them back – one slammed it back down to the table while the other coughed it over the table, murmured something about defeat and staggered away. Intrigued, Bakura got up from his bar stool and walked over, slightly wobbly but not feeling too bad for the eight pints of English best he had just drunk (to the barman's surprise for two reasons – a) being that it didn't seem right for him to be almost completely sober and b) that he had ordered ale and not alco-pops like most people of his generation) and enquired.

It seemed that there was a drinking competition going on, between the man still sat at the table and any challengers, to drink as many shots of neat absinthe as possible before yielding, throwing up or being rendered unconscious and therefore unable to continue. To Bakura, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to pump more alcohol through his host's veins, and sat down in the empty seat facing the man.

Without a word of greeting, his opponent poured out two shots and drained his own. Bakura followed, feeling the strong liquid burn his throat on the way down. He smiled; enjoying this nightclub might not be as difficult as he thought.

Five shots in and Bakura could see that his opponent was struggling – he had already faced other people that night and probably didn't expect someone who appeared to be so young have such a high alcohol tolerance, especially after eight pints previously. Luckily for Bakura, being the spirit of the Millennium Ring seemed to allow him to drink much more than the average person could take, but even he was feeling his head spinning after five shots of neat absinthe. With shaking hands, the opposing man poured out another two shots, although he also managed to hydrate the table a little as well. The men locked eyes over their glasses, raising them up to their lips in unison and tipping them back before slamming the empty glasses on the table. Both were breathing hard, and beads of sweat began to build on the brow of the dark haired. Bakura watched in drunken amusement as the other man's eyes glazed over and he fell backwards onto the floor, unconscious.

Grinning at his victory, Bakura got up and staggered a little over to the bar and paid for the shots he had drunk and considered what to have next. Something highly alcoholic would do the trick and make a nice end to his evening.

"Vodka," he stated at the bemused looking barman, who was internally thinking how the youth was still upright.

"Large or small?" he replied, taking a glass from behind the bar.

"Bottle," Bakura placed his hands firmly on the bar-top, although it was unclear if this was to steady himself or to make a point.

"Did you say you wanted a bottle, sir?" the barman couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He had served many people in the past - alcoholics, bar flies, those who were just out on the piss – but he had never encountered anyone quite like this guy.

"Yesh," Bakura slurred, "I would like a bottle of vodka... pleash" he added, slapping a twenty pound note on the bar top.

Without further questioning, if a little unsure of what he was doing, the barman took out a new bottle of vodka and handed it over with the measly amount of change.

"Kay, thanks," Bakura grabbed the bottle and walked off into the crowd of people dancing to the terrible music blaring out of the speakers to find an unoccupied corner, which was difficult as couples had taken to pinning each other onto the walls and eating each other's faces off in those areas. At this he shuddered, he really disliked seeing heterosexual couples in public, which is why he usually stuck to gay bars and clubs.

Finding a suitable space, Bakura spent the next hour cradling his vodka while slipping into a rather drunken state and checking out some of the more attractive boys – though none were as pretty as his Marik. When he realized that there was no more left in his bottle, he decided it was probably best if he went home, seeing as he hadn't thrown up yet and he didn't really want to push it.

Staggering to the door, he relieved some more of the clubbers of their wallets and waved happily at the bouncers just as he tripped and fell. Bakura felt a strong hand clasp his shoulder and lead him out, and vaguely heard the words "Let's get you a taxi". The next thing he knew, he was being strapped in to a cab and the door closed.

- The next morning –

Ryou awoke yet again feeling like he'd been dragged through a burning hedge backwards, which had also been in hell at the time. His head was worse than ever before and every little noise seemed louder than drums. He moaned in pain as a car started up outside and rolled over. Bad move – his stomach churned and he leapt out of bed and ran straight to the bathroom.

**I really enjoyed writing this one, and I hope you enjoyed reading it too. Special thanks to Lupa Dracolis for being my proof reader! (oh, and did anyone guess where the 'Bakura drinking beer' logic came from?)**

**Xezbeth**


	3. Arrested

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Arrested **

Walking down the high street, Bakura clutched the handle of the nice, new, shiny knife he had concealed in his pocket. Ryou had really been pissing him off lately – leaving cuddly toys around the house, locking away his knives, (which was why he had to go out and buy a new one) and throwing away his yaoi books and sex toys – so he was going to get his own back. Originally, he had contemplated burning his things, but the bastard could just replace it. He was going to hit him hard, and in a way that the goody-two-shoes would feel it for a long time.

Turning quickly to the right, Bakura strode though the automatic doors of the post office, miss-timed it and walked straight into an elderly lady coming out with her pension, who glared at him and muttered something about 'you kids these days, with your arrogance, and your mobile phones, and your digital watches, and your duel monster cards...'

Surveying the line of miserables queuing up for some reason or other, Bakura chose a middle aged man two places in front of the tobacco counter as his unwilling victim. Sideling up next to him, he pretended to be looking at the chewing gum while aligning him up to the right position. Quick as he could manage, Bakura grabbed the man from behind, pulled his knife out and pressing it to his throat.

The shop went deadly silent, no one quite knowing what to do. One woman screamed, another fainted, and the man under Bakura's knife gagged a little and shook in fear.

"Nothing personal," he whispered into the man's ear, then to the rest of the shop he said, "there's a psychopath with a knife holding someone hostage! What are you waiting for? Call the bloody police!"

- Some time later-

A S.W.A.T. team burst through the automatic doors of the post office, pointing guns at Bakura.

"Put the knife down!" one shouted, although there was a hint of fear in his voice – obviously not used to so much excitement

Bakura chuckled to himself;

"Have fun, Ryou," he said under his breath, then switched his soul with that of the innocent British kid.

**This was another that was quite fun to write, but mostly I hope you enjoyed it as much as the last chapters. Next one along soon!**

**Xezbeth**


	4. Engagement

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Engagement **

Gold and Silver – metals precious and older than the great Pharaohs themselves – fashioned into tapered bands joined with two swivelling Scarab Beetles of the same metal, their underbellies inscribed with hieroglyphs which, when translated, wished good luck. They had sat side by side in a glass display case in the Egyptian Exhibit in the Domino City museum, just to the left of the Giant Rock. You see, I say they _had _sat in the display case for that is no longer where they are. The museum had generously been alleviated of such precious artefacts by former thief king Bakura, who was in a decidedly happy mood.

There was something about steeling ancient Egyptian artefacts that set Bakura's heart racing. Maybe it was the thrill of the situation, maybe it was the immense value of the pieces, but – most probably – it was the thought that he may have stolen them before. These rings, however, filled his veins with adrenalin for an entirely different reason, partly love, partly hate.

Love for Marik Ishtar, his beautiful blond boyfriend; hate for Ryou, his weak, pitiful hikari.

Bakura had placed the rings in a wooden ring box, which was, in turn, in his small rucksack, right next to a brand new and state of the art home video camcorder. It was going to be an interesting evening.

Luckily, Marik wasn't in when Bakura arrived home, so setting up the video camera – hidden away on a shelf – didn't take a great deal of time. Looking at his watch, he ran through to the bathroom, hoping to have enough time to wash his hair and get changed before his fiancé-to-be (hopefully at least) came home from a timely booked pampering session. After leaning over the bath to turn on the newly installed power shower (bliss, according to Bakura, a waste of money, according to Marik – he preferred long soaks in the bath), Bakura shrugged off his shirt, then pulled his t-shirt off over his head. Just as he was reaching for the button on his jeans, he heard the front door click and open-

"Hey, Bakura, I'm ho-ome...and RA is that spa good! Cleansing mud baths, waxing, a hot tub – a frigging hot tub, Bakura!" Marik slammed the door shut and threw his bag down on the sofa.

"Sounds, uhh, great, Marik..." Bakura sighed and turned the shower off; there would be no time to wash his hair now. He was about to put his t-shirt back on when Marik burst into the bathroom, grabbed his wrist and pulled him out, receding to wrap his arms around Bakura's waist and wrest his head on his chest.

"I've missed you, 'Kura... although I don't see why you couldn't have come today," the Egyptian squeezed him tighter, before letting go and brandishing his millennium rod, "they even did a gold-cleaning service! How was your day, anyway?"

Bakura backed away a little, towards the shelf containing the hidden video camera, and flicked it on, "well, I can't say my day was uneventful... a little bit of daylight robbery, shoplifting... the usual. But I _do _have a surprise for you, however," he moved back towards Marik, fingering the ring-box in his pocket.

"A surprise? Bakura... it isn't a dead animal again, is it? You know I don't like it when you bring those in,*" Marik folded his arms and looked at Bakura suspiciously.

"No, no, it isn't a dead animal... this time. Marik, there's something I want to ask you..." he took a deep breath and got down onto one knee, taking the ring box from his pocket and opening it to reveal the golden scarab ring inside, "Marik... will you marry me?"

Marik looked at Bakura, then at the ring, then back at Bakura, "oh gods! YES Bakura, of course I will!" he threw his arms around the Brit's neck and kissed him on the mouth, allowing him to slide his tongue into it.

Breaking away, Marik gasped a little as a thought came into his head, "y-you're not going to make me wear a dress... are you?"

- the next day -

"ooo, this one's pretty!" Marik held up a big, white, puffy wedding dress up at Bakura.

"What does it matter if it's pretty? It's not like you're going to wear it..." Bakura crossed his arms and checked the time... nearly three hours of looking at bloody wedding dresses, '_kill me now' _he thought.

"No, you're right... it needs to be bad taste, and maybe covered in little pink bows... and- YES that one," Marik frolicked to the other side of the shop, towards a hideous piece of silk, netting and bows.

Bakura almost gagged at the sight of it, but at the same time an evil smile spread across his face.

Ryou opened his eyes. He was standing in the middle of the front room, fully clothed and nothing was hurting. Odd, he only tended to gain control of the body after sleep, black out or... when Bakura wanted him to. Suddenly suspicious, he looked around to make sure there weren't any mouse traps, knives or pots of boiling tea lying around – which there wasn't. It was then he noticed that the T.V was on, and connected to camcorder, which was playing the same clip over and over again.

Bakura: -down on one knee- Marik... will you marry me?

Marik: oh gods! YES Bakura, of course I will! –Throws his arms around Bakura and they kiss-

Ryou gulped, taken aback by what he had seen. His whole body was ridged with astonishment, fear and, most of all, dread. He was going to need a hot, sweet cup of finest English breakfast tea and a good sit down... and possibly even a slice of cake. Turning to the kitchen, he gasped. Hanging, neatly on a coat hanger, was _the _most hideous wedding dress Ryou had ever set eyes on.

He was going to get married to Marik, and he was going to wear that.

Cake was definite.

*** Proof that, deep down inside, Bakura **_**is **_**a kitty**

**Now, this **_**was**_** fun to write =) I hope it was equally fun to read! Thanks to everyone for fab reviews **

**Xezbeth **


	5. Wedding

**Bakura's Tales of Torment **

**Wedding **

Bakura straightened his tie and checked himself in the mirror, running his hands down the expensive suit he had _acquired_ for the event to smooth out the creases. He stared at himself for a few minutes, allowing the full scale of what he was about to do wash over him. Patting his breast-pocket, he glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes.

In just a quarter of an hour, he was about to be – he coughed – _legally_ married to the most handsome and brilliant, if slightly irritating, man he had ever known. For someone that took every situation in his stride, Bakura was feeling bizarrely anxious. But he was sure he'd get over it.

He hoped, at least, that Marik wasn't too sore from their pre-honeymoon activities the previous night. A bride grimacing through their own wedding isn't the best of things. Bakura chuckled to himself, the thought of Marik being his bride amused him even more than the way Marik seemed to take to the role so naturally... picking out colours here, planning things there. It wasn't even as though they had any guests.

Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, Bakura gripped the smooth handle of the flick-knife residing there. There was no way in hell he was going to do this without a little bit of violence. Anyway, the priest probably wouldn't marry them without a bit of a threat... for some reason Marik had insisted on a priest, though he couldn't think why.

Bakura pushed the large oak doors of the chapel open, pausing briefly to admire the intricately carved woodwork offset by cast iron hinges that twisted into fleur-de-lis near the centre of the door. Inside, the air was chill and there was a faint dampness about the air. The priest, who had been occupied with straightening the cloth on the small alter, turned.

'Can I help you, sir?' he said in a surprised tone.

'You _do_ do weddings, right?' Bakura walked towards the priest.

'That is correct, my son. There are pamphlets by the door... we are happy to take bookings any time of year, although at least three months notice is advised,' the priest took in Bakura's bemused expression warily, to him, the Brit didn't seem quite the church going type.

'What about today? Around, say, now?' Bakura felt the handle of the knife in his pocket, 'no guests, no arrangements, just the vows and the marriage certificate.'

'I must apologise, my son. That is impossible. I am honoured that you chose this chapel for your place of union, but I'm sure that your fiancée would prefer slightly more extravagant, or, at least, planned, circumstances of her marriage,' the priest was shocked by this request, and took a defensive step backward, placing his hand behind him on the altar.

Laughing, Bakura flicked the knife out, a ray of sunlight streaming in from the door glinting on the blade, reflecting the fear in the priest's eyes. 'I'm afraid I will have to insist. My fiancé was very specific about the dates...'

'Y-you're insane!'

'Oh, I know.'

'WOW. This place is SO pretty, I never knew you had such taste, Bakura!' clutching a small bouquet of white roses and dressed in a purple velvet suit*, Marik skipped through the door of the chapel, admiring the woodwork briefly, before turning to his fiancé.

'You got here just in time, _honey_. The fun's just about to start. Father Jack**, meet my boyfriend and husband to be, Marik,' he pressed the knife a little harder against the priest's throat, feeling him stiffen as the blade cut into his flesh.

'You're going to get married to a _man_?' Father Jack choked, unable to hold in his shock, despite the situation he was in.

'Father, I believe you are in no position to comment... but not to worry, I have the rings,' Bakura smiled and patted his breast pocket, before holding his hand out, which Marik took gently, 'shall we begin?'

'Marik, will you shut up! They'll hear us, for Zorc's sake,' Bakura shuffled around the luggage compartment of the plane, taking care not to knock anything over. Soon the flight would be leaving and they would be on their way to Egypt.

Backtrack: Marik had wanted a honeymoon, and Bakura had thought that it would be a perfect opportunity to really screw Ryou over – in a metaphorical sense, of course, Bakura would never dream of actually screwing Ryou... he had Marik for that. He had tried to think of the most desolate, unfriendly place he could subject is irritating little hikari to, and a rather familiar landscape had popped into his head: a desert.

The perfect place, in that case, to honeymoon, reminisce, torment Ryou and, while they were there, even visit Marik's tomb.

Actually booking a plane ticket had seemed far too expensive, and – more to the point – sensible at the time, so they had pulled some Steves*** and snuck aboard the airbus headed for Cairo.

Feeling a tap at his shoulder, Bakura twisted his head around to Marik, who had crawled up behind him. 'What is it?' he put out a hand to steady himself as the plane hit a patch of turbulent air.

'Let's join the mile-high club!' he whispered, snaking his hand into Bakura's t-shirt and stroking his chest.

Bakura grinned, 'Marik, sometimes you are full of good ideas.'

'!' Bakura buried his face in his hand, his body shaking with laughter.

'What? What the hell is so friggin' funny?' Marik folded his arms and glared at his partner. Why did he always have to be like this?

'Hehe... sorry, but you actually used to LIVE here?' Looking around the tomb, Bakura noted the burnt out torches and the scratches on the stone walls – signs of a life long left behind.

'Do you have a problem with that?' for some reason, Marik had the sudden urge to defend the integrity of his child-hood prison, which was then pushed away as his Yami reminded him of what his childhood had actually been like.

'Yeah, you're right, it's a shit hole...' he kicked at the floor, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

'Hmm, you've got your awkward look on... maybe it would be best if you didn't show me around?' Bakura shifted his weight onto his back foot and looked at Marik thoughtfully.

'Are you implying that I have a grumpy face?'

'Possibly.'

'Bakuraa, I do NOT have a grumpy face! My face is perfect. _All the time!' _Pouting, Marik flicked his hair to the side.

Chuckling, Bakura stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, '... your face is pretty even if you _are _grumpy.'

Folding his arms, Marik looked away, 'I'm still annoyed at you...'

'Ah, well... I have an idea. Something that will cheer you up no end,' he took Marik's arm and started up the stone corridor to the rarely-used exit of the tomb.

Marik followed, intrigued, 'and what would that be?'

'Wait and see. But we will need to _borrow _someone's camel.'

Sand. Sand everywhere. Sand as far as the eye can see. Sand in his hair, sand in his shoes, sand in his clothes. Sand everywhere.

He walked, knowing only he was going in the right direction for the fresh camel tracks leading away from where he awoke. Luckily, they had left him two bottles of water, but walking was painful due to newfound aches and sharp pains in places that were... _unmentionable. _

Ryou truly hated Bakura.

*** 'the suit isn't cheap. You should know, you bought it' – Marik is secretly the joker, obviously**

**** 10 points to whoever can tell me where Father Jack is from**

***** Steves are from Yu-Gi-Oh! The Abridged Series. Only guys called Steve (or girls called Steve, but those are hard to find) can be controlled by The Millennium Rod **

**... This chapter isn't amazing. In fact, I believe it fails at life. Sorry =( It took forever to write, and was really awkward with so much going on. The next one will be much better. **

**Xezbeth **


	6. Bills

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Bills**

CLICK. Ignition. The gas ring flared into existence at the spark, and Bakura wasted no time in turning the dial up to full before moving on to the next one. Click, whoosh, turn. It wasn't that he was going to cook something – or do _anything _constructive with it, for that matter – he was simply clocking up a gas bill that would be sure to send Ryou through the roof.

What kind of Power Company would believe, 'It wasn't me, I swear! It was the 5000 year old ancient Egyptian spirit that possesses my body... and he's refusing to pay.'

They'd send in the bailiffs, shortly followed by the men in the white coats. He chuckled... Ryou trussed up in a straitjacket, being spoon fed for the rest of his life. What a thought! But that would be – although very amusing – extremely impractical on his part. You can't exactly carry out an evil plan while stuck in a padded cell.

With the hob and oven on full blast, Bakura flicked the switch on the food processor and pressed a couple of buttons on the microwave before moving to the sink. Gas isn't the only thing you get charged for these days, and the more he has to pay, the more miserable Ryou becomes. And the more miserable Ryou becomes, the happier Bakura is. It's an effective circle.

With a quick but thorough circle around the flat, and Bakura turning all electric appliances on and twisting the taps to full, he plonked himself down heavily on the sofa. Picking up the remote, he flicked casually through the channels, remarking loudly that there really is bugger all on. A film, it seemed, was in order, and what a better way to pass the power-hungry night than with a showing of his favourite movie of all time: Cannibal Holocaust.

After slotting the disk into the player, Bakura grabbed the phone off of the sideboard - one more delicious slice of misery for that limey brat. Dialling the number he by now knew so well, he settled back down in front of the T.V. and listen to the tone ring out.

Once...

Twice...

Thrice...

'Hello?' the voice at the other end seemed impatient.

'Hello, Marik,' Bakura tilted his head backwards slightly, resting it on the back of the sofa.

'FLUFFY!' gone was the impatience from the Egyptians voice, replaced by excitement.

Bakura rolled his eyes, sighing. He really did hate that pet-name. 'So, how was your shopping trip today...?' An open ended question – the perfect way to increase your phone-bill tenfold. Zoning out from the babble of his boyfriend, Bakura let all of the on-screen blood fill his mind. Torn limbs, savaged faces and organs ripped from bodies drowning out the whine of the blender, the whir of the plug sockets and the whoosh of the taps.

Ryou was going to be more than a little put out.

**Huzzah, it's a short one, but far better than the last chapter... in my mind at least! I hope it made you laugh – that's what I'm here for!**

**Xezbeth **


	7. Stranded

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Stranded**

Bakura drew his coat around him as the bitter Moscow air bit into his skin. His hands were frozen. His fingers were stiff around the lighter wedged deep in his pocket, and the passport that he clutched in his other hand.

The plane journey had been... less than comfortable. That damned stewardess had kept asking him if wanted an 'in flight beverage' (which would, he was quite certain, have cost him half as much as the bloody flight in the first place) and the man next to him had fallen asleep almost on takeoff. This had meant nearly four hours of continuous snoring, snuffling and the occasional dribble. _Lovely_. Not only did this have the Brit on edge for most of the journey, it also impaired his ability to relax and enjoy the squealing coming from inside of the Millennium Ring.

Ryou, it seemed, had realized Bakura's plan quite early on this time and was trying his hardest to regain control of their body and walk him off of the plane -something that Bakura scoffed at while buckling himself into the seat and ignoring the fact that there was a life jacket beneath his seat and the emergency exits were 'here, here and here.'

On reaching the Moscow airport, Bakura strode off of his British Airways Boeing 747 (at least it wasn't Ryanair) to find that all of the 'Scheduled Flights' screens were filled with the word 'Cancelled' and the tannoy systems were going off all over the place, in as many languages.

When the heavily accented English announcement was aired, all Bakura could do was laugh, "fleeghts from airport have bayn cancaylled or delayed due to ayruption of Eecelandeec volcano"

This was perfect! Convenient, at least, as Bakura planned to leave Ryou stranded in Russia for as long as possible. His reason: fun. Pure and simple. It amused him to watch the boy suffer, even if he not done anything to piss him off recently. As Marik would say, with that childish grin plastered onto his face, it was 'Pre-emptive evil!'

Making his way out of the airport, the sudden cold had struck him – contrasting to the warm, softly air-conditioned structures he had been inside of for the past seven hours. He pulled the cheap, disposable lighter from his pocket and, with great difficulty on account of his fingers numbing on contact with the air, sparked a small flame. So not to have it go out in the brisk breeze that tousled his bangs and blew down the back of his coat, he cupped the flame close to his chest while turning to the appropriate page in his passport. The edges darkened to black carbon and a small wisp of smoke rose from the horrendous photographic image of the British boy, carrying with it the putrid scent of burning plastic.

Within minutes, the whole red book had caught light, forcing Bakura to drop it on the frozen ground. There, it continued to burn, and Bakura watched with a dark smile – half hidden by his coat – as it slowly carbonised in front of him.

From there he hailed a taxi, climbing in and relinquishing control of the body back to its original owner – driving away from the airport to an unknown location, in a country that's language he knew nothing of, leaving his passport softly smouldering on the ground.

Stranded.

**And another one bites the dust! Seven down, thirteen to go... although I hope that the rest won't take me nearly as long to write. (Personally, I blame the Pharaoh) Hope you enjoyed reading this chapter and that it made you chuckle ^_^**

**Xezbeth **


	8. Vertigo

**Bakura's Tales of Torment**

**Vertigo **

Bakura laughed. He laughed harder than he had ever laughed before, and subsequently Ryou's stomach sank. He should never have let that slip. The fact that he had severe vertigo was not something that he wanted his yami to know, as this was something that he would likely take advantage of.

Ryou had guessed correctly.

After a tiresome hour on the phone, Bakura had a plan. It wasn't the neatest plan, and it did seem a little over the top, but a plan it was all the same. All of the airfields that offered skydiving – and Bakura had rung _all _of them – were full up. He was not pleased that you had to book so far in advance – it was completely inconvenient!

The plan involved spending another half hour trawling through the yellow pages and making use of the rudimentary computer hacking skills that he had obtained over the last century. By the end of this, he had the name, address, telephone number and sky-diving session booking code of a man that lived not too far away... and a knife blade with his name on it.

It was late – nearly midnight – as the pale Brit slipped through the open bedroom window. Silent, slick, he could have been a ghost for the white hair that spilled down his back. But a ghost has no physical form – it cannot touch flesh or cold steel. Bakura, however, could do both. He pulled back the bed sheets from the sleeping form and, with a quick flick of his knife, slit his throat.

And like that he was gone, but only after taking the man's identity cards from his wallet. The pretence of another's identity is much easier if you are in possession of their identification.

For the explicit purposes of throwing his Hikari out of a plane, Bakura had stolen the complete identity of a man that few would notice missing for a good week – purely due to the genericness of his circumstances – John Smith, Supermarket Cashier - average, mundane, normal.

_His legs wobbled. White knuckled hands gripped sheet metal. Then he was falling. Faster and faster and faster. Wind whipped past his head, his hair flowing white behind him. Carrying away his scream. Carrying away his tears. The ground was getting bigger, stretching out before him. He was going to hit it. Hit it, hit it, hit it. Poof. Slowing down. His parachute pulled. Relief. He wasn't going to die! He was safe, he was safe, he was... he was going to be sick..._

It had taken his damned Hikari nearly a week to recover from the skydiving incident, but this vertigo of his seemed like too good a thing to just let lie at that. There are many low cost things that involve heights that one can get up to in the British countryside – Hand gliding is one of those activities, and the costs themselves can be tremendously slashed to ribbons if you apply a little thrift and common sense.

Bakura's personal take on thrift and common sense was not so much 'waste not, want not' but 'take advantage'. In this particular case, he was more than happy to apply this view to the hand glider owned by a student no more than a few doors down. He was a charming lad who loved to spend his weekends doing things like camping in the Lake District, or climbing Ben Nevis (you know the sort), so he was conveniently away from home on this particular day.

It was larger than Bakura had imagined, and he had to fold it up quite a bit to fit it into the car he had, uh, borrowed for the trip. But that was a VW Golf for you; boot big enough for the bastard's golf clubs but completely the wrong size and shape for a procured hand glider.

_No control. It was _him _doing this, and there was nothing he could do. He hated it. He wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn't move. He wanted to cry, but his eyes weren't his to cry from. He couldn't move, but he could feel. Feel the straps digging into his hands and the wind whistling past his ears. Feel the terror and anguish as they dived and ducked around the hills and into valleys. Feel his stomach lurch with every swoop or turbulent moment. Powerless though he was, he wanted to stop it. He wanted to go home. He wanted... well, he wanted his Mummy. _

It was, it seemed, all a matter of convincing the Egyptian to let him borrow the 'Evil Plane of Death' from their council store. The problem being was that Marik had only managed to steal the 'Evil Plane of Death' the previous day, so he was rather attached to it.

'I just don't see what's so frigging important about tormenting your Hikari,' he had said, 'The Evil Plane of Death is too utterly EVIL to be doing things like that... it should be... uhh... dropping water bombs on people's crazy hair styles or...or...' he trailed off.

'Exactly. And tormenting my Hikari IS evil, Marik. We are villains, after all,' Bakura had countered, confident that this might work on Marik's childish logic.

'I'm still not convinced,' he said, after some thought on the matter, but was quickly apprehended by the Brit as he stepped in and kissed him.

'I'm sure I can _convince _you further,' Bakura's voice became lower and huskier as he drew the Egyptian into his arms.

'Well, in that case...'

'Up up and awaaay~' Marik's voice was shrill, made more so by the rumbling of the propellers as the bi-plane took off. He looked utterly ridiculous – insisting on wearing a long scarf, period goggles and a woolly flying jacket that looked as though it belonged to someone's grandfather. But it was all about 'looking the part' apparently.

Bakura was slightly lighter dressed, and strapped in an upright position on the right wing of the aircraft. He could already feel his Hikari trembling, more so than the vibrations caused by the aeroplane underneath him, trying to shrink back into the recesses of their mind. Bakura, however, was by far the stronger of the pair, and grabbed the boy by his long, white hair and dragged him out into control of the body, before quickly slamming the door to the Ring shut (all metaphorically, of course, for there is no door to the Millennium Ring).

_Screaming. Crying. It had all been done before, but it seemed continuous throughout the hour he spent in the air. Twice he vomited, spewing vile liquid onto the wing beneath him, splashing his shoes. All the while, the Egyptian laughed. But he sobbed. Sobbed from the bottom of his soul, as the terror took hold. Ashen faced. Muscles clenched. He wanted to die. _

The rocks were sharp, but they made good handholds where the path was narrow. The air was fresh and clean, and Bakura breathed deeply, admiring the view from high on the mountain. Ahead of him stretched hills and pastures of green, farmland and the faintest rivers. Above him, blue, blue sky peppered with the fluffiest hints of clouds. Grinning he looked down.

_Rock. Endless rock. Down and down and down. He stumbled. Reeled back. Eyes watering. Stomach tight. No harness... NO HARNESS. Pressed back quickly against the rocks. Digging into his back. Ripping of fabric... trickle of blood... Trembling fingers. Shaking legs. Edging back along the path... back down. Slowly. Don't trip, don't fall, don't trip, don't fall..._

**Long chapter is long. And quick in the writing, too! *astonished at self* Had to laugh while writing this... is it wrong to enjoy tormenting a fictional character so much? Ah, never mind. :P**

**Xezbeth**


	9. Movies

**Bakura's Tales of Torment **

**Movies **

Each object he had stolen, each life he had snuffed out, each second of pain he had inflicted, Bakura remembered. Some of the memories were dull and hazy; others bright and sharp – it all depended on how much he had enjoyed them. He remembered the tombs in Ancient Egypt, he remembered the feel of Marik's skin under his hand... and he remembered how much his pitiful little hikari hated horror movies.

The advert had stood out to him the day before as he was flicking through the TV channels –

"Caves of BLOOD! IN 3D! The scariest, goriest film EVER MADE! IN 3D! 7 out of 10 reviewers say they had to have counselling after watching this bloody shocker IN 3D! Rated 18. Only available IN 3D! The cinema and film producers do not take any responsibility for medical needs after viewing."

This was the perfect opportunity to mess with Ryou's head – he wouldn't give him complete control of the body, just the eyeballs and the ears – the perfect way for him to experience the 'scariest, goriest film ever made. In 3D.' And the 3D seemed to be emphasised not only in the television's advertisements, but in the posters too. They all had that irritating effect that would only work if you were standing directly in front of them at distance more than a metre. Any closer, or if you were off centre, then all you'd get was a blurred lump that was indistinguishable from an extreme close up of a group of pixels.

The queue was long, and it was one of those cinemas where you had to buy your ticket before your refreshments, so you couldn't tag team with another person. The fascists also searched you before you entered the foyer, to check that you weren't brining in any unauthorised drinks or sweets and that you had to pay extortionate amounts for the popcorn, drinks and _especially _the pick-n-mix. It was a joke. But not quite as much of a joke as how much they made you pay for a pair of 3D glasses that they asked you to give back again at the end of the film for 'recycling'.

These were some of the reasons why Bakura did not attend the cinema all that often – that and the time they made you loiter before letting you into the film, and making you have no choice but to sit behind either a tall person, someone wearing a hat or someone with an outrageous hairsty- drop that last one, it was slightly hypocritical.

Eventually, after a good thirty minutes in the queue for the film ticket, paying begrudgingly for his 3D glasses, another fifteen minutes queuing to buy his popcorn and drink –minus a coaster for legal child protection reasons – and then an additional fifteen minutes trying to find a decent seat to 'optimize the 3D effect' as he had been instructed to by the over-sweet girl at the till, Bakura finally got to sit down and put on his pricey glasses. He could feel his hikari shrinking away inside the ring, but that would be no use. He quickly took hold of his 'hair' and did the spirit equivalent of sellotape-ing his eyes open, just in time for the movie to start.

A month later, Ryou was still waking up screaming with visions of severed heads being impaled on stalagmites... in 3D.

**And so another chapter of torment comes into existence! The next one, 'Pain', will hit the halfway mark- Huzzah!**

**For those of you who are interested, I've written a follow up/extra to chapter 7, Stranded. It is entitled 'What happens in the Russian Airport, stays in the Russian Airport' and was inspired by **AmeeraSakura **following an amusing conversation via the PMs here on . **

**If you would like to read it, it can be found here - .net/s/7100200/1/What_happens_in_the_Russian_Airport **

**Xezbeth**


	10. Pain

**Bakura's Tales of Torment **

**Pain**

Bakura had never been one for body modification – it was Marik who had the obscure body piercings and the scarified back (albeit that wasn't through choice). Even in his past life, so long ago in Ancient Egypt, he had steered clear of that kind of thing. It just didn't appeal. He was, by no means, a masochist.

However, even 5,000 years on, Bakura was a sadist. The sick, twisted thought of causing pain no longer made him laugh insanely as he once did, but it brought a smile to his pallid face. Especially when concerning his host. The boy had slipped up in his usual careful manner when talking to the Spirit, letting slip a fear of needles and, to quote him directly 'Mummy would be so disappointed if I came home with one of those ghastly ear-piercings or tattoos'. As much as Bakura wanted to keep the body he inhabited free from ink and lumps of metal, this was an opportunity too great to let pass.

And so Bakura sat – listening to the pre-emptive whimpers emerging from the Ring at his chest – watching the 'Body Artist' squatting in front of him, rigorously going through the essential cleaning steps that this kind of piercing would need to prevent infection. It would probably take a great deal of effort to maintain the half-state in which he planned to keep his host in – feeling the pain but not in control of the body's actions. Concentrating on this, he held the boy tightly in place, knowing that once the pain began he would try his hardest (however pathetic it may be) to break free and hide within the recesses of their mind.

The body artist had finished talking, and was busy preparing the needle – he didn't notice the sly grin on Bakura's face when he looked over his shoulder at him and said, 'If you'd pull your trousers down...?'

Adjusting his crotch, Bakura left the studio with an uncomfortable look on his face. The friction between the combination of jeans and underwear on his brand new Prince Albert was by no means pleasant, although it did amuse to him to think of the look that Marik would give him later. The Egyptian _would _be impressed. The Body Piercing Studio was, conveniently, the front of a Body Art Emporium – an intriguing place where one could have almost every painful body-alteration known to man inflicted for a handsome price on oneself, and such was optimistically displayed in picture form on the opposite wall.

Bakura strode, if a little sorely, up to the display-board and admired the shots of muscled men sporting vibrant inking and facial piercings. Taking an information leaflet from a holder, the Spirit looked over the list like a restaurant connoisseur choosing a meal.

What should he have first from the menu?

Shaking, Ryou stood naked in front of the full-length-mirror in his bedroom, an expression of horror fixed upon his face. His limbs throbbed; blood rushing to the newly-tattooed hieroglyphs across his forearm and the scarified section of skin on his shoulder. The end of his penis hurt to an extent that the boy wouldn't dare try and remove the bar that protruded hideously through it. Tears sprang to his eyes.

What was he going to tell Mummy?

**What's this? An UPDATE? Sorry it's been so long in coming, guys ^_^' **

**So, as this is number 10, it means I'm half way through! *cue celebratory music* And, with luck, I'll get the next 10 finished quicker than it's taken me to do these chapters.**

**Thank you all for the support you've given me so far, (I'm an awful person. I should update more OTL ) **

**Xezbeth xx**


	11. Fatigue

**Bakura's Tales of Torment **

**Fatigue**

Blink. Blink. Blink. The computer monitor in front of him flashed violently, the spray of blood covering the screen continuing to spurt from his Player Character, lying prone on a sidewalk in pixel-land, with a horde of zombies tearing into its flesh. He swore profusely. Bakura hated the death screen.

Reaching for another can of Red Bull1, he checked the LED display on the horrifically cute rabbit clock that sat next to his bed – WED. 03:07 AM. He had been playing this computer game for over seven hours and it was beginning to infuriate him, although, he mused, it _was_ the only way he could stay up all night without company. Marik had apparently been '2 bussy 2 hlp :)' him – or so read the badly spelt text – so he either had a Yami-induced murder spree planned for this evening or another one of his bizarre 'evil plans' that probably involved placing a whoopee cushion onto someone's chair; to quote the Egyptian directly 'It's funny because he's not actually farting but _everyone thinks he is_'. Both were equally likely.

Ryou had done it again: allowed Bakura an insight into his mind, specifically concerning how much he cared for his grades. And as with all of the things that Ryou cared about, Bakura was set on his quest to ruin every single one of them. This was no exception.

Feeling his eye lids begin to droop, the Brit minimised his flailing Player Character and opened a new tab. Time to stream some incredibly loud music to his laptop. Preferably illegally. It was just something he did. As the heavy guitar riffs and drum beats began pounding tinnily out of the desktop's speakers, Bakura brought up the game once again and began emptying his handgun into the face of an especially grotesque hulking mass of rotted flesh that was lumbering towards him over the blooded corpses of its fellows.

It stopped dead.

It fell to its knees.

Its head exploded.

This seemingly out of sync incident caused him to snort with amusement, before reverting his attention to the other masses of brain-craving undead that seemed to think that his Player Character worked for Tefal2 . The clicking soon became almost monotonous; heads exploding, limbs ripping, torsos cleaving open – all a constant presence but none causing a change in the steely-eyed expression upon the Brit's face. The kill streak steadily rose. Time moved steadily on.

At last, the vulgar, high pitched squeal of the alarm clock cut through the silence that had engulfed Bakura (The music had long since cut out, but he was too absorbed to go and refresh the page) signalling the supposed arousal of his host from the fluffy clouds of his dreams in preparation for school that day. With a smirk, he hit SAVE and withdrew back into the Ring around his neck, letting little Ryou out into the morning.

The school gates towered above him, a heavy black monolith of suppression control. He had made it this far, but his body was exhausted – all of his energy spent.

If he could just make it to his desk...

Someone tapped his shoulder, and, forcing his head to turn to the side, Ryou was confronted by the overly cheerful face of a boy in his class, whose accent was the strangest the Brit had ever heard – something between the Japanese he was used to hearing and something from one of the five boroughs of New York City, located at the western end of Long Island, otherwise known as Brooklyn.

'Are you ready for the test today, Ryou? I sure am!'

**And so chapter Eleven is published. . I'm sorry, I started writing this ages ago but didn't around to finishing it D: Chapter twelve should be soon! **

**Xezbeth **

1 That's the British version of Mountain Dew, for all you Americans.

2 If you don't understand, Google Images it!


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